BattlefieldVersion One
by doctorcoffeeboy
Summary: This is the same as 'Version Two' of the same name, but without slash. War/Pain/Sadness. But it gets better, and the bad stuff follows to not-so-bad. So please try it out! Mainly John, but a fair bit of Sherlock, Mycroft mentioned, but no one else really


A/N: Hello! Just had this idea in French today. Um, there is possibility of Slash, which I know some of you don't like, so I've created a non-slash version. This is it. If you wish to view the Slashy version…well, go find it! It's no different to this really, except from the ending bit. But the rest is just the same.

**POV: John Watson (Check the initials every time there is a break to see who's POV it is.)**

**~|~|~|~|~|JW|~|~|~|~|~**

I opened my eyes, the sounds of rapid gunfire and shouts bringing me to consciousness from a weary sleep.

Looking around and up, I saw clouds of smoke and death. Looking to the side, I saw mud all around me, under me, and seeping slowly into my clothes.

It took a few seconds for me to realise I was in a trench.

In panic, I looked across again, to someone else that had been woken from a short nap, and noticed the curls beneath the dirt and blood.

"Sherlock?"

"John. Hi." Sherlock smiled grimly. "Good to see you awake."

"Why are we here Sherlock? Weren't we at the flat?" I shook my head, not understanding what was going on.

"John. We signed up one month ago, remember?" Sherlock stared at me carefully.

"Why? I said I never wanted to come back to this. And why did _you_ come along?" I frowned.

"The _adventure_, John. And because Mycroft said I couldn't." Sherlocks' eyes lit up with the thrill. I knew that look; I'd seen it with fresh soldiers when I was here before. They had heard about the pride of 'Protecting Queen and Country', and the idea had pulled them in. With Sherlock I could tell he just wanted to go again Mycroft, and see what it had been like for me before we met. Or it was just some experiment.

Sherlock was too young to be here. He had acted young and childish at Baker Street, but around people like Donavon he was older, more dignified. With such a bi-polar nature, War wasn't the right place for him.

"Sergeant Watson!" A voice called. I looked up, my old title ringing in my ears. "Lieutenant Holmes! Report!"

I watched Sherlock stand up and hold his hand out to me, helping me up. The damp had sent a tinge in my shoulder, but I found it didn't hurt much, being with Sherlock and the thrill.

We made our way through the dirt, winding between people running back and forth, calling orders and clutching bloody limbs. Sherlock seemed fairly at home, and I just felt like I'd never left. It wasn't sure if that was a good feeling or not.

We came to a halt in front of Major Stevenson, saluting him and standing to attention. Sherlock seemed like he hadn't yet adapted to following orders but did so anyway.

"Right boys. You're going up top." He told us. "I know your brother said to keep you both safe-" The mention of Mycroft was a bit of a shock, as he was so far from where we were, but it kind of seemed normal, that he'd track us and keep an eye on us. "-But frankly we need you up there."

"Okay." I nodded calmly, trying to stop my heart from trying to fall out of my chest. Looking across I saw Sherlock standing as I was, but there was a glitter in his eyes that I recognised with a deep pain in my chest. Excitement.

"You ready?" He asked Sherlock, who stood slightly straighter in his uniform – long forgotten were his silk shirts and long blue/grey coat.

"Yes, sir." Sherlocks' lips tilted up in the corners, smirking.

"Are you laughing at me Lieutenant Holmes?" The Major looked at him sternly.

"No…sir."

Major Stevenson nodded and looked to me. "You good to go up Sergeant?" He asked as there was an explosion some way behind him, followed by a few screams and calls for a medic.

No. No I wasn't. I wasn't ready to fight for things I didn't truly believe in, and I definitely wasn't ready to see Sherlock go through the pain I knew would happen if he got shot.

"Yes, sir." I bit back my fears, playing brave. But that lead to Mycrofts words the first time I met him: _Bravery is by far the nicest word for stupidity, don't you think?_

**~|~|~|~|~|JW|~|~|~|~|~**

Before I knew it, me and Sherlock were side by side, holding our guns and firing at the enemy. My hands were shaking slightly and my shoulder had kicked in, realising where I was.

I risked a glance across. Sherlock was paler than ever, and his expression was troubled.

It was clear that whilst the idea was thrilling to him, Sherlock wasn't too keen on outright blind killing people he himself didn't have a grudge on. Sherlock fought to catch people that killed others, not become like them.

**~|~|~|~|~|SH|~|~|~|~|~**

War wasn't what I imagined. I knew it wasn't full of quips and jokes or as easy as people thought; I wasn't stupid.

But nothing could have prepared me for the screams, the lack of the hygiene and personal space, or the solid terror and fear that was almost a visible presence, hanging in the air around us. Or the death that seemed to be waiting, just beyond reach, taunting us and waiting to take us away.

As the machine gun I'd been given was jarring in my hands, the ricochets being caused by the bullets that were being launched, I suddenly realised that I was killing people. I'd known it, and knew it was there, but tried to forget it.

Suddenly I noticed, I understood. I looked up as I fired, and saw an 'enemy' close by – just another man - and saw the look of shock and pain as the bullets hit him. I saw a man die because of me.

My hands stopped working, the gun stopped firing as the true impact hit me. That man had done nothing to me, my country, or anyone I knew, and I just willingly shot them without really thinking about the life I was stopping. The family he might have had, or been preparing for. A whole career and life had just stopped living. A heart had just stopped beating.

John looked round as he noticed my gun wasn't firing and I wasn't doing anything. So he saw what happened next.

My thoughts were stopped in their tracks as I felt a sudden, sharp pain in my stomach, followed by a fire that swept through my body and set every part of me into hot agony.

I heard a scream tear from my lips of its own accord as my legs failed on me and I fell back, gripping my stomach and dropping the gun. What shocked me was how much warm liquid – _blood_, my mind quietly corrected me – there already was.

**~|~|~|~|~|JW|~|~|~|~|~**

I looked round as Sherlocks' gun stopped firing, and saw the shot hit him.

"SHERLOCK!" I called, throwing my weapon to the side and crashing down next to him, ripping some gauze from my med-pack and pressing it tightly to his wound, swiftly soaking the material in my friends' blood.

"Don't worry Sherlock." I murmured. "It's gonna be alright." My hands were shaking as I realised he was going to die. The bullets had hit major organs, and this was known to be the most painful way to die.

"John…I know it's not." Sherlock chocked out. "Don't need to try and spare my feelings..." His voice was quiet, but not the quiet I knew Sherlock for: demanding, powerful, strong. This was weak. He trailed of, unable to bite back another scream as the pain rippled through him, his hands trying uselessly to push down the gauze more, and stop his lifeblood seeping out, and the pain from getting in. That scream sent shivers of pain through me, such emotion, such fear.

"Oh god, oh God, oh God." I stammered, wondering why his eyes were suddenly gleaming. Then I noticed my vision was blurry. We were both crying.

I hadn't seen Sherlock cry before; it was unheard of in his unemotional status. This was serious if Sherlocks' body had finally decided to show emotion.

"Sherlock…you can't die. You can't leave." I was sobbing unashamedly now. Sherlock was the one man London really needed, he was important. He was the person _I_ needed in my life. Sherlock had stopped me from being lost when I returned to London after my first spell in this place. He'd kept me grounded in the strangest of ways. If anything, he was the greatest friend anyone could have asked for, even if he was a little annoying at times. Okay, a lot of times. But that's what Sherlock was like.

"John…it's okay. Don't worry." He smirked a little at repeating my words at him.

"Don't worry? How can I not worry? I'm only here because I'm with you." That was meant to sound better. "I mean, you keep me fighting. You're my best friend! You can't go and die!" I'd reached the stage of anger now. "What about Mycroft! Lestrade? God…even Anderson!"

"You'll have to annoy them for me." Sherlock chocked a laugh.

"What about your job? The deduction! It's what you _live_ for Sherlock. God…" I chocked on a sob for a moment. "You can't." I shook my head.

"John. I'm sorry." Tears made tracks down Sherlocks' face, painting lines through the dirt and showing the alabaster skin beneath, as his face contorted slightly with pain that I couldn't even begin to imagine.

"It's going to be okay. I'll help you, you'll get through this. We'll go back to Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson can complain about your godawful experiments that you left behind and you can stick as many smoking patches on your arm as possible, even though I've tried to stop you. Hell, we'll stay in watching crap telly, you'll tell me if they're right on Jeremy Kyle, and we'll drink far too much tea and then at night we'll visit a few restaurants, you'll get thrown out of them for telling people about their affairs and we'll go to Scotland Yard, find a few cases, help out the London Taxis' by paying to get all over the town, chase a few criminals, and follow obscure leads."

I noticed Sherlock wasn't speaking anymore, and his hands were cold. Too cold. But I refused to believe it, I kept talking, kept crying, for both of us.

"Anderson will try and put you down but you'll chuck back a quip about his face or the fact that he is still having an affair with Donovan or something, I'll update Lestrade on everything and then we can go home, make some more tea, and once we realise how late it is and that I've got work soon, we'll just stay up, talking, or being quiet, and I'll try and convince you to tidy up a bit, you'll always win with some absurd excuse, and when I go to work, I'll tell you to get the shopping half-heartedly and come back a few hours later to see you trying to microwave metal or something. You will be almost blowing up the kitchen but it won't matter, because we're both there, we both manage, and that's just life, right Sherlock? Sherlock?"

I looked at his eyes, and saw nothing. Just the shell of the worlds only Consulting Detective. My only friend, the only person in life I'd truly cared for and been in awe of.

I realised numbly that my hands were still on his stomach, still trying to stop the blood that was now all over myself and my uniform. My friends blood was mixing with the blood of other soldiers I had tried to help, or failed to help.

He was reduced to just another victim of war. Like thousands of other men.

We'd always talked about his, about how we would die. I was convinced we'd play too close to the fire in one of the cases, and burn, but Sherlock told me we'd be fine. We'd get through. We'd manage.

Seems he was right. We weren't on a case, we were on a battlefield.

And it wasn't 'we' any more. It was 'I'. Sherlocks' corpse lay before me, empty and cold. His brilliant mind had stopped, his heart that I knew existed even if no one else did had stopped beating.

I opened my eyes, the sound of silence and the occasional passing car bringing me to consciousness from a fearful sleep.

Looking around an up, I saw the ceiling. Looking to the side, I saw the walls, with my mattress beneath me and warmth seeping into my clothes.

It took me a few seconds to realise I was in 221b Baker street.

With relief, I looked across again to someone else that had been woken from sleep, and noticed the curls of my flatmates hair.

"Sherlock!"

"John. Hi." He smiled grimly. "Good to see you awake."

"Why? Is there a case?" I tried to sound normal, but was aware that my throat was sore as if I had been screaming and speaking too much, like in the dream.

"You were screaming John. And crying." That explained why my vision was blurry and my face felt damp. "I didn't know what to do, if I should wake you and what I should say." He paused, still standing in my doorway, arms folded so he was sort of hugging himself in the dark, still in his dark trousers and sort of deep green/brown tee, an awkward expression on his face. "Are you okay?" He asked quietly.

I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed, feeling the floorboards beneath my bare feet, just reassuring myself that this was all real, and scrubbed a hand across my face. "I'm fine Sherlock."

"What dream was it?"

"Nothing. Don't worry about it."

Sherlock walked over to my bed and sat next to me, still looking sort of awkward. "You were calling me. I came because I thought you wanted something. I thought you were hurt, but you were just sleeping, and crying." He said quietly.

I noticed with a pang that it was the same quiet as my dream. Strange how there are different kinds, but his was weak at the moment. The best way to define it was the word 'unsure'.

"It was a dream about Afghanistan." I started. "We had both signed up a month before the dream, and we got sent up over the trenches. You got shot in the stomach, and the bullets punctured your vital organs. I tried to help but…" I trailed of, blinking back more tears as I remembered.

Wordlessly, and somewhat awkwardly, Sherlock moved closer and manoeuvred his arms round me, pulling me into a hug. It was comforting, and I could tell that Sherlock wasn't really sure what he was doing, but that made it better somehow. That he'd gone out of his comfort zone to help someone else. And that someone was me.

He waited for a while until he was sure I wasn't crying and more then pulled back, moved away a bit and looked down, clearing his throat quietly before speaking.

"I heard that when people are upset, they sometimes get comforted by hugs." He explained. "So…I thought you might need one."

I smiled. "Thanks Sherlock."

"I'll…um…put on some tea. Then we can go and find a case." Sherlock smiled and stood, leaving quietly to put on the kettle – another rare thing for Sherlock to do.

I smiled gently, glad that everything was alright. We would never leave, there was no need. We were perfectly settled here.

Pushing the thought of death and bullets from my mind, I grabbed my jumper, slipped it over my head and went downstairs after Sherlock, grinning that he was really still here.

A/N: Everyone alright? I was listening to sad music through this one, and made myself almost cry… so please review to cheer me up! THANKS!


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